


What Brothers Are Meant For

by Nehszriah



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Denethor II is a giant dick, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Prompt Fic, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Relationship, Steward Brothers being brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7322740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fills off of tumblr concerning Boromir and Faramir, sons of Denethor II, at different points in their lives.</p>
<p>Currently rated T to cover a wide variety of potential situations, but might get bumped up later if there are any battle sequences (same goes for any additional tags).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This collection of stories is mainly the result of my one friend and I loving the Stewards Brothers of Gondor and their awesome brothership that we're unfortunately not privy to in the main stories because it was mainly implied/implied/told instead of shown. When I open up tumblr prompts, sometimes said friend drops in a relevant request, and thus said fills will go on here.
> 
> I don't claim to know all about the vast legendarium, as my most vivid version of the stories is a combination of the movies and what I've read on wiki (currently in the middle of Try #4 when it comes to the trilogy books), which is of course, scattershot. If there's any sort of glaring errors, please do let me know so I can figure out a way to remedy (or consider this an AU; whatever works the best).
> 
> Anyhow, the following story takes place when Boromir is 14 and Faramir is 9; their mom passed on about four years prior and their dad is still sulking.

Standing in his office, Denethor stared at the large, polished stone intently. He knew what it was—a palantír, passed down through Gondor’s kings and stewards for generations—and it had taken him years to be able to properly locate it within the Citadel. Now that it was finally in his hands, he could see if the whispers were true about the Dark Lord rebuilding his armies and gaining power yet again.

Suddenly, a rapping at the door wrenched his attention from the palantír. He quickly grabbed his cloak, sitting discarded on his chair, and tossed it over the stone before turning towards the noise.

“Yes? What is it?”

The door opened and his younger son’s nurse burst into the room. She had her charge by the ear, the boy’s eyes red with tears.

“Milord, I hate to interrupt your work unnecessarily, but this has gone on long enough,” the nurse said. She shoved the young Faramir towards his father, though he stumbled and fell into the desk instead. “This little hellion has given me grief for the last time.”

“Father! Don’t listen to her!” shouted a voice from the corridor. Moments later, Boromir rushed into the office, out of breath from sprinting. “She’s _lying_! Don’t listen to a word she says!”

“I have yet to hear her case,” Denethor replied stiffly. He then nodded towards the nurse, giving her a turn to speak.

“Young Master Faramir is _deliberately_ attempting to pull pranks on me that would cause bodily harm,” she said. “If it were hiding my knitting and spooking me from around corners, it would be one thing, but I have found pins in my chair cushions, my tonic replaced with waste water, and _now_ he’s gone and laid his hands on me, hitting me in the face unprovoked!”

“There is no truth to it, Father!” Boromir insisted. “She was being cruel and hit Faramir for speaking the truth!”

“…and what truth was this, Faramir?” Denethor wondered. He peered down at the boy, who was still knelt down on the rug, nursing the lump on his head.

“That she’s a miserable old hag,” Faramir muttered sourly. “I didn’t do a _thing_ to her, and all she does is beat me and make up stories about how bad I am and how _I_ should have died instead of Mother!”

“I won’t deny her that,” Denethor said, his voice flat and heavy. “You should not hit a woman, least of all your nurse.”

Faramir stood, flabbergasted at his father’s words. “She hit _me_! If she can hit me, then I should be able to defend myself! I cannot be a soldier unless I know how to defend!”

“No teatime and a meager supper for a week,” Denethor ordered. “After that, you are to be placed in a higher level of training, with the older lads. No more nurses for you—this will be the last one you have terrorized to early greys in her hair.”

“…but Father…!”

“Silence; we shall make arrangements to move you from the nursery immediately. I have coddled you for too long. Now leave.” The steward then turned to the nurse and exhaled in a practiced motion. “I do not mean to turn you out onto the streets—you shall get a good reference and allowance to stay until you’ve found another employer.”

“Thank you, milord.” The nurse then curtsied before leaving, allowing Denethor time with his sons. Furious, he went around his desk and grabbed his son by the scruff of his collar, nearly pulling him off his feet.

“What is _wrong_ with you?!” he scowled. “She was employed to take _care_ of you, and that was how you treat her?! I knew I should have taken you out of the nursery years ago already.”

“That wasn’t what Mother wanted, Father!” Boromir interjected.

“Don’t bother yourself with rabble-rousers, my son,” Denethor ordered, not taking his eyes off Faramir. Instead, Boromir wrenched his father’s grip away from his little brother, standing between them.

“Faramir is your son too!” he reminded him. “That nurse was a witch of a woman— _all_ his nurses since Mother passed away have been! Why can’t you see that?!”

“I clearly have not been strict enough with him—some children require a heavier hand than others.”

“…and Faramir doesn’t need a heavy hand, only a sign that you love him as a father should a son,” Boromir snapped back. “Why can’t you do that?”

“I will do that when he keeps in mind to not cause trouble, as well as behave with the severity and gravitas that a Steward of Gondor should find naturally… though he will not be one.”

“Findulas would be _ashamed_ , letting whatever is preoccupying your mind get the better of your judgement at the expense of her son,” the teen sneered. He then took his brother by the hand and stormed out of the room, their father furiously sputtering behind them.

“Do **_not_** use her name!” he shouted. “You have no right!” The brothers kept walking, the elder escorting the younger away from their father’s keep.

Eventually, Boromir and Faramir came to their favorite spot in the Citadel: a perch from which they could sit and watch over Minas Tirith undetected. The younger sniffled quietly whilst the elder placed his arm around him.

“Hey, it will be alright,” Boromir said. “I know Father hasn’t been the same since Mother died, and even more so as of late, but one day you’ll show him the strength of your metal and then he cannot deny you anything.”

“…but it _hurts_ , Brother,” Faramir croaked. “Why does he hate me so?”

“I don’t know,” Boromir sighed. He knew that if he lifted up the back of the child’s shirt that he could see bruises their father brushed off as gained in play. Not all of Faramir’s caregivers had been violent, but it was true that they were all nasty, wretched souls whom he would have sacked on the spot had he been the one with the power.

“Thank you for trying to help,” Faramir said. He clutched his brother’s shirt as they sat there, feet dangling off the ledge, with Boromir’s long legs allowing his toes to barely scrape the rooftop below. “What do you do to make Father proud? Maybe I can try that?”

“That is something I’ve been trying to figure out myself,” Boromir sighed. “Father has been too peculiar, too finicky, almost touchy. I know he’s still in mourning blacks, but he’s letting it consume his mind.”

“I don’t think it’s only the mourning blacks…”

“That is a possibility.” The teen scratched his jaw, the faintest hint of a beard beginning to sprout there. “My tutor is curious about your skills… maybe we can spar more often and work up your skills to something that Father cannot even pretend to be ashamed of. You are doing well with your letters, numbers, and histories, yes?”

“…of course…”

“Then we shall make sure that you can fight alongside me,” Boromir beamed. “I’ve heard whispers of battles looming in the future—if that’s true, then we can make names for ourselves. Tavern songs, court musicians, fathers far and wide with a son to rest upon their knee, will speak of us as being heroes of Gondor.”

“Really…?”

Boromir kissed his brother on the brow and hugged him tightly. “It is what brothers are meant for.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is roughly when the brothers are young adults, about mid-to-late twenties, I'd guess.

Orcs were not that common within the boundaries of Gondor while the sons of Denethor II were growing up. Those years had been exceptionally kind to the kingdom, for the most they ever saw were a few bands here, making themselves known as raiding parties and border reinforcement more than anything else, never straying far from the Land of Mordor. This had not been the case in recent times, however, and the scouting parties that were once merely for show now played an important part in the defense of Men yet again

Guard captains were considered an important asset to the Gondorian armies. Many a young lad dreamt of becoming one, though few grew up to become the sort of man that could weather such a task. It was thus that Denethor, son of Ecthelion, sent his younger son Faramir, out past the River Poros, for the newly-made captain was to establish a watch on Harad Road, as deep into South Gondor as possible. The watch was to be a first line of defense, as well as a permanent scouting post, though Faramir knew what it was: near-banishment. To be out of sight was to be out of mind, and he took the position without argument. The young captain wrote a single letter before taking his leave, knowing he could not stall until the recipient’s return.

> _Boromir,_
> 
> _When you get this I shall be in South Gondor at Father’s request. Please do not come after me; I know what it is and it is what pleases him. With luck I shall see you sometime during Ivanneth. If luck is not on my side, then simply know you have been a better man towards me than Father has._
> 
> _Your brother,_
> 
> _Faramir_

Nearly three months went by and eventually Boromir returned to Minas Tirith and the possible farewell note from his brother. For Faramir to have written down something he would have only spoken in the closest confidence meant that he did not necessarily expect to return home. In a rage, the elder brother deigned to not speak to their father until the young captain returned, safe and sound, though clearly beaten up over the course of his deployment.

“Little brother!” Boromir nearly cried as he met Faramir in the Great Hall. They embraced, though the younger winced at their usual display of affection. “The Haradim did a number on you, eh?”

“No worse than Nanny Dalla, I can assure you,” Faramir laughed.

“That old hag? She probably had Harad blood in her, the cow,” his brother chortled. He cautiously put his arm around Faramir’s shoulders and began to walk with him towards the corridor entrance. “You had so many—if I remember correctly, that’s the one who nearly tossed you from a parapet while we were visiting Father.”

“She was, and don’t remind me,” Faramir groaned. Once the two were alone in the corridor, he turned to Boromir and frowned. “Did you get my note?”

“Yes.” He took his arm back and they kept walking, side by side. “That was very dangerous.”

“Father ordered me to take the post.”

“I meant _the note_ , you half-wit,” Boromir chided. “You do know what could have happened if a maid turned it over to Father while I was gone? If _I_ decided to turn it over to Father? For all we know, those who dislike him could search our quarters while we’re away looking for something _precisely_ like that to use against us—your support troops could have been your assassins.”

“I know that perfectly well, Brother,” Faramir muttered. He went into his quarters, hoping Boromir would stop right there. He did not and followed him in, as he had done dozens upon dozens of times before while they were in the middle of a talk. “It’s not like Father can dislike me even more.”

“Of course he can; if he saw this, you’d be _dead_ ,” Boromir said. He took the note from his pocket and waved it in front of Faramir’s face. “You are _mad_.”

The young captain stood there, confused as to why his incriminating note was being shoved in his face. “You kept it?”

“Why wouldn’t I keep it? It could have been your last words to me.” He then tossed it in the fireplace, using the poker to make sure it fully caught in the flames. “If you had come back on your shield, I would have shown it to Father.”

“He would have loved to know he was right about me,” Faramir scoffed, taking off his armor. He placed it carefully off to the side, so that whatever poor footman had the odious task of cleaning it would at least not have to look very hard.

“No—I would have used it to guilt him. There are other ways though.” Boromir turned and watched his brother put on a clean shirt, taking care to not appear that he noticed the half-healed battle wounds he carried. “Enough of that… you just came back from your first proper deployment and you’re still standing; that calls for a drink! Put on your best rags—we’re going to the pub!”

“Brother, really—”

“No excuses,” he insisted. “You gave Father his report, yeah?”

“Yeah…?”

“…and you don’t have any other duties to attend to?”

“…not that I’m aware of…”

“Then that settles it! We are going to drink until we’re turned out on the streets!” Boromir slapped Faramir on the back, aiming for where the battle wounds were the lightest, and laughed gaily. “I know of a place that brews its ales in the Rohirric style, and that can knock a Dwarf on his arse!”

“ _All ales_ can knock a Dwarf on his arse if given enough,” Faramir replied, rolling his eyes. “Give me something that can beat one of those Elves up there in Mirkwood—Old Nedd says that they can drink an entire barrel of the hardest drink and not even bat an eye.”

“It’s true that Old Nedd has spent time with the wood-elves, but he’s also a lousy liar,” Boromir scoffed. “Come on… then have I led you astray?”

“Knowingly or accidentally?”

* * *

Hours later, and while Boromir had very knowingly brought his brother to a pub and put a couple pints of ale in him, the brothers did accidentally find themselves stumbling throughout the quiet city streets in an effort to return to the Citadel. Since the pub with the Rohirric ale was on the city’s first level, it took plenty of quiet maneuvering in order to sneak through all the gates without all the guards coming down on them. It was done for the most part through hidden passages, long known to them since childhood, though at the final gate they had to approach the guardsmen who were on watch that night, the four of whom seemed particularly amused to see them.

“Ah, back from a night of indulgence, I see?” snickered one. “If you wanted some drink, it’s cheaper to go to your father’s stores.”

“That’s not the point,” Boromir replied, slurring his words. “I, as a _proper_ brother, am making sure this sprout has a **_glorious_** homecoming after his first mission as Captain.”

“Can we please pass?” Faramir requested. “I can already feel sickness coming on.”

“Sickness? You held it together with the best of them!” Boromir laughed loudly. He did not see in the wan torchlight that his brother was looking an unseemly shade of green and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Put him against any Man, Dwarf, or Elf—he’ll outdrink them all!”

“I should have known!” hissed a voice from the shadows. Out crept Denethor, still in his night-things, scowling at the scene. The guardsmen all saluted and stood at attention, while his sons struggled to stay upright. “Off drinking at all hours of the night the moment he gets home! I knew I should have kept you two apart.”

“Father, don’t tell me you and Uncle never went out drinking after your marriage to his sister!” Boromir chuckled, completely missing his father’s ire. “Let us be _men_ for once! Brothers!” He slapped Faramir on the back, kick-starting his brother’s hangover and causing him to vomit all over their father’s slippers. The guards could not help but laugh, while Denethor flew into a rage, storming off into the night. It was something none were ever allowed to speak of, lest they lose their positions.

Morning found Boromir and Faramir both sick to their stomachs with new deployment orders arranged for them both. They met in the corridor and slapped one another’s hands in half-hearted triumph on their way to their respective missions—anything to irritate their father.


End file.
